Crystal Clear
by blink-once-4-Yes
Summary: Harry is in denial. Serious denial. Luckily, that doesn't last long at all. A concise look at Harry's rather muddled path to clarity. Severus/Harry written by Miriam, beta'ed by Alice.


Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns it all, not me.

This is set somewhere after Harry's 19th birthday. Lord Voldemort is currently waging war against Britain. Pretty much cannon through the 6th book.

**Warning**: Slash, probably not very explicit.

* * *

**June 17, 1999**

Fidgeting quietly Harry frowned at his cracker.

If He lived for another hundred years Harry swore to himself he would never eat another saltine. There were tins of them here at Grimmauld place.

Tins _upon_ tins.

The sheer amount of the saltines was incredible. And annoying. It didn't help that the over abundance of crackers was nicely evened out by the complete lack of anything else to eat. This left Harry with the rather unenviable choice between the worlds blandest food form and an aching stomach.

In the end, the crackers won out.

Still munching on his saltine Harry eyed the gloom that was Grimmauld place. Dust motes danced in the thin light that came from a boarded over window, and the empty stillness seemed even more pronounced.

Tins of crackers and layers of dust. That was all there was to be found in Grimmauld place.

That, and Harry.

So he sat there, eating his crackers with thinly veiled disgust, waiting for Grimmauld place to fill up with something more.

And like clockwork, as the crescent moon rose to its zenith, it did just that.

*

**July 9, 1999**

At first it had been like going to the dentist.

The nasty sort of dentist, the one liable to pull out your teeth just because it hurt and not because they actually had to.

The sort of dentist that thinks novacaine was for putting small kittens to sleep.

You go because there's always the off chance that your teeth actually will need to be pulled. And if that happens you don't want to be out of a dentist do you?

So Harry went to Grimmauld Place. Maybe he didn't expect his teeth to be pulled, but something equally unpleasant was bound to happen.

It always did.

Besides which, Harry needed the information. The information only _**he**_ seemed to be able to get.

Sometimes it made Harry want to stamp his foot. How did such a miserable person have such incredible luck? Why couldn't one of the Order's spies ever find anything so good?

Still, he tried to curtail the foot stamping. That would not go over well.

The actual meetings were awkward, stilted. They needed each other. Or at least Harry needed _**him**_.

And Harry hated _**him**_.

*

**August** **24, 1999**

Surreal.

That would be the word for it.

They had been plotting. Sitting around the worn table desperately trying to find a way to end this damn war. Plotting was safe. A completely respectable past time for a Slytherin and a very-nearly-Slytherin. But then plotting turned to arguing.

Arguing was to be expected. Welcomed even. Between the two of them it was a time honored tradition. The shouts that echoed across the halls of Grimmauld place were almost cheerful. In this time of lunacy, where nothing was sure, the arguments became something of a beacon. A homing device to sanity.

_Don't get tired._

_Don't get hungry._

_Don't mourn, not yet, there still isn't time. Just make it through the day sane, and you can argue with **him**._

It was only when these thoughts changed, when argue become debate and debate became talk, that Harry started to worry.

Because eventually, talking turned to caring. Even Harry, who at best could be descried as a bit thick, knew that.

And caring was about the most dangerous thing a person could do.

*

**September 12, 1999**

Glumly, Harry eyed the pile of half-eaten crackers. Fidgeting slightly, white crumbs rolled off his worn trousers. Harry popped his knuckles. First on one hand, then on the other.

_**He**_ was late.

Pacing came next. Back and forth on the worn carpet of Grimmauld place. He paused only when the great grandfather clock chimed to signal the end of an hour.

_**He**_ was never late.

Finally, Harry tried to take a nap. Settling down on a moth-eaten chair Harry pressed his eyes together. The grotesque visions, part memory of battles fought, part sheer dread, danced liked specters behind his eyelids. Napping wasn't going to work.

The moon hung high in the sky, shining light onto Harry's pale face.

If _**he**_ was seriously hurt....

If _**anything**_ had gone wrong....

Harry had to swallow thickly as a wave of nausea swept through him. The sheer intensity of his feelings unhinged him. He would have expected himself to feel this way about Ron or Hermione, but him?

Sweet Merlin, how things had changed.

Breathing came rapidly, vision blurred. Harry wasn't sure he could do this. Wasn't sure if he could go on living like this.

It was only as the floo came to life and a head emerged from the fire place that Harry was able to breath again.

*

**October 13,1999**

Harry paced, a slight limp in his walk, a hint of a rattle in his labored breath.

Merlin's beard, how had he been so blind?

It had been right in front of him this entire time...and only now could he see it at all.

He hadn't even known it was possible to fall in love like that. He thought it would have been sudden and strong. Like fireworks flaring to life, or cold water dumped over your head.

Actually this did feel like cold water dumped on him.

Harry let out a harsh laugh and continued his pacing.

It had been so slow. Creeping up like an illness, until he was under it's thrall. No loud noises or flashing lights. Just the undeniable understanding that his heart, his soul, the few things that the Dursleys, the Ministry and Voldemort had never been able to touch, weren't his anymore.

Maybe they never had been.

Raking his hand through his hair, he took an uneven breath. He'd need a plan.

A really, _really_ good plan. Probably a sneaky one too.

He knew it wouldn't be easy. Hell, it was probably impossible. But on the off chance that he lived through this war, he would need something to live for. And this was all Harry could think of that would be worth the bother.

As the Floo roared to life, Harry squared his shoulders. He'd faced Voldemort, the Dursleys and one very irate Hermione. How much worse could this possible be?

God, he was so screwed.

*

* * *

This is a singularly strange piece...I didn't even mean to write it, it just came out..... There is the possibility of more chapters depending on what you all think. Do be a dear and tell me if it's complete crap?! Thanks.


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